Flowers For A Ghost
by Basorexxia
Summary: Maybe Violet is sick of being stuck in the Murder House for fifteen years. Maybe Tate has learned to stay away from the only girl he has ever loved. Maybe the haunted house is getting new residents soon. And maybe, things are going to be shaken up for everybody in the Murder House, alive and dead alike. - Eventual Violate. Rated T for now.


_"I'll be home with you_  
_Just wanna be close to you again."  
_- _"Home With You"_ The Faded

* * *

_I matter… _

_I matter… _

_I fucking matter! _

Much to Violet's shock, she realized that she sounded like a familiar, hated slut that wandered the same house as her. Her steps grew more frantic as her anger increased, the cigarette in her hand dropping ash on the carpet as she raised it to her lips. Her shoes kicking empty cigarette packs as she walked, her brow furrowed with the dark thoughts running through her head.

_I should. Just to show him that I can. Just one cut. No one will know. _

_It'll heal anyway, without a mark too. One of the perks of being a ghost I guess. _

_Why not? He broke __**his**__ promises! Why shouldn't I do the same? _

"_You should never hurt the ones you love." Bullshit. Fucking liar. _

Violet paced the room, angry thoughts swirling in her head like a vortex. The cigarette dangled from her lips, more ash falling from the end and onto the dark purple carpet. It was her second to last one; she was going to have to bother Constance for a new pack soon. Taking one last drag of her cig, she put it out on her over-flowing ash tray. Pulling out her crumpled pack, she put the last one in her mouth and dropped the empty package to the ground, where it joined the countless others. Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years, she's been in her room, haunted by the images of the boy she loved but still couldn't forgive. _Tate_… she thought brokenly, she wasn't sure whether she hated him or loved him for what he had done to her mother, but there was something that she couldn't deny.

She missed him.

She missed him with every fiber of her non-existent being. She missed his arms around her, his soft lips often cool with the touch of death, his dark eyes that were nearly as dark as the blackness that he lingered in. He had once called her his only light, and she knew that he was the darkness that balanced the scales between them. And the midst of the anger and hurt she felt towards him, she wondered why he hadn't talked to her since she had told him to go away — why she hadn't seen him since that Christmas, ten years ago. That was the first and last time she saw Tate; the first and last time she looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing but love and sadness — and so much regret that her heart broke all over again just remembering it. Violet flicked on her lighter with a shaky hand and felt the smoke fill her dead lungs as she threw herself onto her old bed — salvaged from the attic where the movers had thrown the Harmon's stuff when the last family had moved in.

"I wonder what he's doing now…" she whispered, her large brown eyes closing as she imagined Tate lurking in the basement, pacing like a wild animal; with the grace that he always had. A dangerous sort of grace, she realized with a start, the grace of a predator, like a panther after his prey. Sighing softly, she took a pull of her cigarette as the door to her bedroom opened, revealing her mother holding a tiny boy by the hand. He looked so much like his father — inky black hair and eyes as blue as the sky; this was Michael, Ben's child. It was strange to see him grow up —albeit a bit slowly — but at least he was changing, unlike the rest of them. Violet was forever stuck as her sixteen year old self, her hair will never grow, her nails will forever stay short and bitten down; this is made the girl angry, but she still loved her baby brother very much. Her mother, however, was a different story. Violet felt a sort of resentment towards her and her newfound happiness with Ben; she wanted that, but she knew she could never have it.

"Sweetie? Violet, how are you feeling?" Vivien asked tentatively, disdain showing on her face as she surveyed the trash littered around the room. She knew that since they were dead, there was no harm in Violet smoking, but as her mother, she had to forcibly restrain herself from commenting on how dangerous smoking was.

"What a stupid question. I feel the same way every day, ever since I died. I'm tired. I'm sad. And I'm sick of being in this stupid fucking house," she said bitterly, exhaling smoke in an arc. Vivien's nose literally wrinkled at the sight of this and at her daughter's language, but she knew that her daughter needed it. The young woman's attitude hadn't improved much since her death, in fact, it had worsened incredibly. However, Vivien knew that Violet was telling the truth — especially since she hadn't left her room in the past fifteen years. She knew that the blonde boy who lurked beneath the floorboards was the reason for this. She hadn't seen Tate much either, maybe once or twice, coming out from Ben's old office. It surprised her that Ben could even be in the same room as him after what he had done to her.

"I'm sorry Vi. Maybe it's this room that's driving you crazy. Here, come with me; let's go see if Moira can whip something up for us."

"Crazy? I'm not crazy Mom. I can't leave this room, not while _he's_ out there — I can't bear to see his face. I just can't!" the blonde paused, stubbing out the cigarette with one quick motion. "I can hear him, you know. Down there. Below us. Skulking around, wandering the halls when he thinks I can't hear. It's torture," she breathed, her voice breaking, hair swaying around her pale face.

At first, Vivien thought that Violet was going to start crying — not an uncommon occurrence since she often heard sobbing coming from the inside of the room when she sometimes walked by it — but instead, Violet's anger finally broke through her walls and she started yelling. Yelling about how neither Ben nor her ever cared about her, how they neglected her to the point of suicide, how they continued to neglect even in death. She grabbed the nearest thing she had, which happened to be her ashtray, and threw it at her mother, who promptly disappeared before it hit her, a frightened look on her face. Violet continued her little tantrum, destroying various things around her room — a lamp, a picture frame that wasn't even hers — she had picked it up to fill up the emptiness that was her room after the Ramos family had left — and other small items before she ran to her desk and open the drawer, a single razor blade the only occupant.

_One cut._

Just one.

She pulled it out and pushed back her sleeve, the old scars a dull pink against the pale peach of her skin. One cut, it would heal very quickly, since she was a ghost. No one ever needed to know. With a quick slice, the razor dug into her skin — much easier than it had when she was alive it seemed. Taking a shuddering breath, she did another and another, until the entirety of her forearm was covered in drooling gashes which splashed onto her clothes. Crying softly, Violet curled into a fetal position on the ground in the middle of the room, whimpering a name over and over; watching as the cuts on her arm slowly stitched themselves together, her arm tingling like it used to do when it got numb.

"Tate… Tate…"

Yet he didn't show up, and Violet remained alone with only blood, her soft sobs and her broken promise as company.

* * *

The darkness seemed tangible down in the depths of the basement; it was as if someone took too deep of a breath they would get a lungful of blackness instead of air, yet someone down there was very much at home — in fact, Tate couldn't envision himself stepping out of the basement for very long. Even then, he only did it just long enough to talk to Ben for a little while and maybe check up on Violet — without actually speaking to her of course.

He would never burden her with his unnecessary feelings; since it seemed that she didn't really need him anyway. He sat in the white rocking chair that he had used when he had scared that coke whore out of her wits. His hands clasped together in front of him, and a pensive look on his face, he stared into the darkness in front of him.

"Tate? Tate, have you seen my baby?" a sorrowful female voice broke through his thoughts and rage instantly filled him — Nora. The ancient bitch had made him get Vivien's baby, only to give it back to her after calling it a "noisy little monster." The young man began to visibly shake as Nora's footsteps got closer to him, but he managed to keep some sort of control — the sound of her heels grated on his nerves and he gritted his teeth. It was when she placed a hand on his shoulder that he shot to his feet away from the woman.

"Tate… W-where's —"Nora's usual question was cut off by a sharp wave of Tate's hand, which quickly turned into a fist at his side.

"Shut up Nora. I _gave _you a baby. I raped my girlfriend's _mother_ to get your stupid baby, and what do you do? _YOU GAVE IT BACK TO HER_!" any amount of self-control he was holding onto disappeared, and his anger came out full force. Nora gave him a frightened, tearful look as she shook her head.

"N-no, no, Tate, I didn't mean to give it back to her. I—"again, she was cut off.

"Shut up Nora," he said for the second time, ice in his voice, "You know, I used to want you as my mother," he paused, tears falling now from his eyes, "but now I know. Now I know that you don't have one motherly bone in your body and I pity anyone who would want you as a mother, and I'm sure as hell glad you weren't mine. Go away, Nora." He watched her flicker and disappear, the seemingly-permanent brokenhearted expression on her face. Sniffling loudly, Tate wiped his face and looked at his watch; it was almost time for his session with Dr. Harmon.

He still took his routine sessions with the now-departed psychiatrist, and he still liked Ben very much. To Tate, he was the ideal father that he never had, though he knew that Ben still held a lot of animosity towards him for taking advantage of Vivien — who wouldn't? Sighing softly, he sat back down, feeling the darkness of the house draping itself over him like a sated lover. He belonged in the darkness, but he so missed his light — his lovely Violet. She had once told him that her parents had thought of naming her Sunshine; she had said that her parents had gone through some hippie phase. Tate thought that Sunshine would be very fitting, for she was the only light he had ever known.

"Thinking of your little Nightingale bitch again? Oh wait. She's not _yours _anymore, is she? She never will be again," When was he going to get a break from all these unwanted whores wandering the house? Probably never, seeing as how they were all stuck there. Tate ignored Hayden, but he knew that she was going to come and climb on his lap at any moment. It was pretty much routine for them; Hayden would be the slut that she is and try to seduce Tate, only to have him forcibly throw her off of him — sometimes he lost his temper so badly that he ended up killing her again, only for her to come back, pleading for him to have sex with her while killing her. It was sick even by Tate's standards and that was definitely saying something.

As if on schedule, the young woman slid onto his lap, ignoring the fact that he was rocking back and forth. She began to run her hands on his chest — as if that could magically get him horny or something.

"Mmm, c'mon Tate. She's never going to forgive you anyway and you'll never bury yourself in that sweet pussy again… You might as well have some fun with me. I promise I won't push you away like she did…" it was always the same words too. The same phrases that she tried to make enticing, and yet always failed. The fact that she was fucking most of the male ghosts in the house didn't help either. He wrapped a hand around her throat and threw her off roughly, making her fall onto the hard concrete with a soft cry.

"Fuck off Hayden, I'm not in the mood to deal with your bullshit right now," the blonde male growled, standing and towering over the female ghost. She chuckled, getting to her feet smoothly; abuse from Tate was nothing she couldn't handle.

"You know, your little Nightingale is about to break. She's never been very strong, though she likes to pretend she is," she drawled, the despicable smirk still on her face. He growled warningly at her, black eyes filled with rage. She chuckled before disappearing, leaving him alone once more, yet his mood was considerably worse now. Having only his dark thoughts for company, he decided that a trip to Dr. Harmon's office was called for. Scowling, he made his way upstairs through the house that he knew so well.

"Hello, Tate," Ben said tiredly as he heard the door open — Tate was pretty much the only one who came to see him during the day. Vivien was always busy with Michael, and Violet didn't talk to him much anymore. As much as he hated to admit it, Tate was pretty much the only company he had. His wife's rapist as a friend — life was funny. Or, _afterlife_ was more like it. "Take a seat."

The blonde ghost took his usual seat on the brown sofa — sometimes it was so hard to tell that they were all dead. If it weren't for the fact that they couldn't leave the damned house, it would be just like if they were alive. The young man settled on the couch, his long legs crossed Indian style, the frayed knees of his faded jeans revealed the skin beneath.

"So, Tate, what brings you to my office today?" Ben said, his blue eyes taking in the young man — he was already sick of seeing him, so nonchalantly strewn on the furniture, as if he wasn't insane; a psychopath and a rapist to boot. The older male couldn't understand how Tate could have killed so easily and then pretend that nothing was wrong afterwards. They had talked about it quite a bit during their sessions, but Ben still couldn't understand. He doubted he ever would.

"The women in this house are driving me insane," Tate said bitterly before letting out a laugh, "Get it? Insane?" It was obvious that the man didn't really appreciate his twisted attempt at humour, since his blue eyes got even colder before he let out a weary sigh.

"Funny, Tate. Hilarious," Ben said icily, getting out his pack of cigarettes. Tate's smile faded as he looked down, fingers restlessly picking at the frayed fabric of his jeans at the knees — this entire scenario reminiscent of the first day he had come to see Dr. Harmon, his noble war speech so thoughtfully given. Tate wondered if he had known how entirely crazy his patient was that first day — or was he just another misguided teenager?

"Tate. Tate? Are you listening to me? You're the only who came here to bother me, the least you can do it listen to what I have to say," Ben's voice make the blonde look up. At least he didn't sound as angry as he did earlier, he didn't sound much of anything, just tired.

"S-sorry, Dr. Harmon," his dark eyes widened for a moment as he looked at Ben, giving him his attention. Now that he had it, Ben wasn't sure he wanted it. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his black hair, the light lines on his face becoming deeper as he frowned.

"Have you gone to see Violet lately?" Tate broke the silence first, his brow furrowing, leaning forward slightly.

"No, Tate. She won't talk to me, same as you," his lips twisted bitterly — a façade of a smile. Tate sighed and continued picking at his jeans with a renewed frantic pace.

"Do you think she misses us?" the blonde's voice was a broken whisper, his eyes fixed on his fingers. Ben doesn't say anything, preoccupied by the teenager's words — did Violet miss them? It was likely, but her rage overtook any other feelings she might have. Resentment bubbled in his own daughter, it had for years and he had never even noticed.

_'Kill. You need to kill, Tate. Feed the house. We need to feed.'_

The whispery voice drifted into Tate's mind and he winced, shaking his head like a dog might to get rid of any water in its ears. He could feel the tendrils of darkness beckoning him back into the basement, sinking into his skin and becoming one with his blood. He wondered if one day, he would lose himself completely to the shadows — become part of the house. He knew a few ghosts who had done so — he barely saw Chad nowadays, and when he did, he looked sallow and sick, the normal color of his skin had turned into a papery white. He was being dragged into the evil life force that surrounded the Murder house. Tate was surprised, he was sure that Hayden would be the first to succumb — the bitch was weak, even though she tried to be strong and commanding.

"I don't want to hurt people, Ben. Not anymore. I'm done with the killing, the murdering, the _blood_," Tate looked at his hands and cringed, as if he could see the red liquid on them. He felt like Lady Macbeth, his hands drenched in endless blood. There was no need to hide his guilt from the psychiatrist sitting across from him; there was no one in the house who didn't know of the blonde's sins — in fact, it was his sins that landed them in the Murder House more often than not.

Ben gave him a tired look, unamused and jaded. He had heard this before, and he couldn't say that he believed a word that Tate was telling him. "If you say so, Tate," his long fingers picked out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. His vices were the only thing he had now; that and Tate.

"No, Doctor, I'm being serious. I'm done with killing! I haven't killed anyone in fifteen years, have I?" the blonde was anxious for approval, for any sort. It had been so long since he had anyone give him affection or even a smile.

"I don't know Tate, have you?"

There was a long silence after that. Tate's eyes even filled with tears before he rose from his seat, seeing that talking with Ben wasn't going to make him feel any better. In fact, it had only served to make him feel worse about everything.

"I should go. Thanks, Dr. Harmon," Tate said, his voice cool as he wiped his cheeks. Ben didn't even bother to respond, simply leaning back into the couch as he watched the other ghost leave. Tate was about to head back down into the basement when the most heartbreaking sobs hit his ears. They were coming from Violet's room and he stopped in his tracks. It was not the first time that he had heard her crying in her room; soft, little sobs that made him want to run to her side and cradle her to his chest, but nothing like these. These were wrenching, harsh sobs that made his blood run cold.

He approached her door slowly, placing a hand on the wood. Did he dare enter her room and comfort her? He wasn't worthy of touching her again, he knew, but God, he wished he was. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself away from the door, willing himself not to burst in there. She didn't want to see him and he was going to do as she wished. His dark eyes landed on the window looking out over the front yard and what he saw outside shocked him.

A moving van.


End file.
